Grand Theft Auto V: The Percival Job
by Shikidara
Summary: This story takes place five years after the events of Grand Theft Auto V, and finds all three of the main characters mired in corporate espionage; they must commit inception on the CEO of Merryweather Security Consulting, Don Percival, to stop the man from reclaiming his license for Merryweather to operate in the state once more.
1. The Union Depository

Grand Theft Auto V: The Percival Job

Chapter 1: The Union Depository's Aftermath

Aside from the occasional close calls of FIB agents just rudimentarily "roaming" the area of the men and women on the Union Depository bank job, relations between the feds and the criminals remained pretty dormant. The heads of the job, Lester Crest, Trevor Phillips, Michael Townley, and Franklin Clinton, had all escaped swimmingly, without any major heat arriving at their door sometime later. They'd made it; sixteen million dollars apiece. They couldn't spend it all in one place, of course; that'd just be conspicuous. However, letting that money go to waste would be economic heresy, an act of stupidity that none of the members of the trinity, evidently excluding Lester, would allow. This notion especially came into play for their next job, one that would be necessitated by their financial decadence.

It was their lucky day, too; at least, for Franklin and Trevor. The job that would send them to financial stability and responsibility would be supplied by an old friend, at least a friend to Michael, whom Mike would never want to see professionally ever again: Norton, Dave Norton. Seeing him again, Trevor didn't exactly get put in a good mood: the events preceding this meeting informed Trevor that Norton had been posing as his dead friend, Brad, for nearly 10 years. Although time had healed the emotional wound slightly, Trevor still held a powerful and vindictive vendetta towards the untrustworthy individual. But hell, if he wanted to kill Dave, he'd have to kill Mike too; both of them were equally responsible for this act of blatant treachery.

However, this wouldn't be any conventional heist; in fact, by some ironic fate, the group would be _giving_ something to the victim: an idea. Their target: Don Percival, CEO of Merryweather Security Consulting, a multinational corporation with soldiers for hire, mainly working for the American military. Or, as Trevor liked to refer to them, the Lizard Army, the mercenary group concocted to usher in the New World Order. The reason for their targeting of the major corporation was simple, especially for Trevor: Mr. Percival was getting plans together to resume operation within the state of San Andreas. This being cause for hostility against the mercenary group for Trevor, or, more specifically, "Trevor Phillips Industries," meant that Norton would have to intercede the situation, preventing any more mishaps between not only Trevor and Merryweather, but the entirety of the "three cunts" as well. To put it simply, if Trevor were to get involved, by some infamous development, Michael and Franklin would soon become embroiled as well. Norton couldn't have this, especially because of the fact that he couldn't have them taking scores again, not under his federal watch.

To complete the objective, they'd need a special piece of technology: the PASIV machine. For those that wish to evade colloquial ideals, this acronym stood for "Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device." This was an entirely new piece of technology that had just been put on the market for the criminal underworld of San Andreas, meaning that attempting any crime with it would be risky, especially a high-profile heist.

"25 million, each," Norton stated.

"Yeah, fuck you too, Davie. As I've said before, we are _done_. We were done working for you after that bout with those Merryweather goons. Got Trevor and I nearly killed. And now you're asking for **another **fucking favor...," Michael retorted.

"I wouldn't have to but in if I didn't know Trevor well enough, Michael. You and I both know that if Trevor—"

"I'm in the room, boys. At least _try_ to be courteous, seeing as how I should've had both of you put in the ground after finding out about Brad."

"Fellas, the way I see it, the way anyone greedy would see it, this is a good opportunity for all of us. Who wouldn't want to use 25 million dollars? That's more than we got from the Union lick," Franklin interjected.

"You know, Frankie does have a point. More money! More guns! More fuckin' tits and strip clubs, all we need to do is learn how to use this PASIV thingee," Trevor supported.

"Well, you all know what you have to do, then. I'll get the specs all planned out, get all the contacts we need; we'll probably need some really experienced people for this particular job. To provide a little more information, I'll need to tell you all what we're dealing with. This new piece of technology, one that was given to me by your friend Norton over there, allows you all to enter the dreams and thus, the subconscious of another individual, or victim in this case. Have any of you seen the movie 'Inception?'"

"It's OKAY, not anything like the movies from my day."

"Your 40-year-old-virgin is showing, Mikee."

"Fuck you too, Trevor. Anyway, yeah, I seen it. Pretty good, but what's your point?"

"Surprised you all haven't caught on; to stop Percival from reclaiming his license to operate in the state for Merryweather again, we need to _convince_ him not to. We're doing it this way so that he doesn't ever decide to try for the license again. Deadly force obviously won't work because of the fact that we'd have Merryweather _Security Consulting_ up our asses. More goons than you three faced last time; about 100 times more. Besides, our last deadly threat didn't exactly do much to scare him off last time, over 5 years ago. That's _why_ we were commissioned."

"Sounds good. You got any contacts?" Franklin questioned.

"Unfortunately, that's the problem, Frankie. This being new-age tech that the criminal underworld, specifically of San Andreas, has only just yet been able to get their hands on, we may have to enlist the help of some corrupted government officials; it's 2013 all over again..."

"No, Lester. We're not doing that again. I've been close to death before, but that bout five years ago makes my other near-death experiences look like fucking teen angst."

"Yeah, Lest, bro, Michael's right this time...we ain't gonna handle that much heat again. We're older, and we're out of the game. How we just gonna pull another big one when the small ones can't even be handled by new blood we hear about every day?"

"Like it or not, assholes, I want my 25 mil. We're getting this done, especially since it'll help my meth business...and Ron. Ron too, maybe Wade. We're getting this done."

"Then I'll need all three of you to do research. Franklin, since you're a bit faster at the game at this point than the other two, I'll need you to get people for certain roles: we need people for the architect, the point-man, the forger, and some gunmen. I'll send you the details later. Michael, I'll need you to do some research on our target. Find out if he's matured against this type of espionage. My own sources tell me he's going to be tough. Trevor, I need you to research the geography of Los Santos, Blaine County, and Mount Chiliad. We'll be relaying those details to the architect we acquire. If any of you have any questions, please contact me as soon as you can. We need to move on this before the end of May. On June 1st, his license is finalized."


	2. May 1st

Chapter 2: May 1st

The last week of April came and went; Michael decided to tell his entire family that he had "important business" to attend to; at the time, Jimmy and Tracey had been at their respective universities. The only other resident of the house left was Amanda, and she knew what the cryptic message meant: she would have to get far away from her current location _extremely_ quickly.

Trevor told Ron to keep watch over the meth business while he was gone, and make sure that Wade didn't get into any trouble while he was still useful to Trevor's monetary prosperity.

Franklin, still not having moved on from Tanisha, didn't have anyone to make excuses to, making his part of the job much easier, as well as worlds more painful.

Lester prepared the plans for Michael to do some in-depth, close-proximity research on Percival, conveying his location among other peripherals.

"I'll need you to tail his daily routine through San Andreas. The more we know about where he goes, the less, hopefully not more, the smaller the maze the architect will have to construct the day we move on the job. This could possibly mean less of a cut, but you shouldn't hold your breath. On top of that, I'll need you to take notes on some of his emotional connections to other people; that could be useful...oh! Also, make sure to find as much information as possible on whether or not this guy's subconscious is militarized, we need to know how much ammunition we need to bring into the actual dream sequence. All in all, we'll be creating three dream layers, with a fourth layer for limbo, which you _do not_ want to venture to unless you've been there before. I'll get someone on that too."

"Christ, Lester, that's a lot of shit. Can't you just give some to Trevor? He's a lot better at tailing people than I am."

"Eh...do you honestly trust Trevor with much all these years later? I mean, I too am surprised that he didn't kill you over Brad, or, rather, hasn't yet. "

"I suppose you're right...for the sake of saving me some work, you know anything about this Percival guy?"

"Specifically, I know about his militarized subconscious to a nonspecific degree. He's been training for this type of stuff since the Union Depository; _5 years._ This could possibly mean that deception **will not** be on our side come the day of the job. That being said, we're going to have to daze and confuse this guy as quickly as possible; either that or gain his trust in some strange fashion."

"Well, that should work just fine; we haven't met. None of the three of us have ever actually met this guy; we only know what he looks like because of Google and what-not. This means that we can gain his trust in the physical world, possibly translating that trust into the dream world once we get down to that level. That reminds me; we're going to need some sort of sedative, a powerful sedative, aren't we?"

"Already thought of it, Mike. I know a guy...name's Yusuf, in Mombasa. Going to have to take a flight there to pick up the sedatives; can't bring him, though. He was on a job just like this about 8 years ago, went pretty well. Unfortunately, however, some motherfuckers couldn't keep their mouths shut, so he's going to be useless on the actual 'heist.' What we're going to need is an expert on anesthetics and these types of anesthesia in general; can't have the sedatives in the dream state going haywire because of a dumbass that doesn't know how to concoct them. He should also be a good driver; if he isn't, we'll find someone else."

"Lest, you can understand, I'm a little worried here. If Percival even catches a whiff of this development, we'll have the whole of Merryweather breaking down our doors. If he finds out _after_ the job, it'll be the same outcome."

"Relax, Michael. It's not like you haven't been looking over your shoulder for the better part of 50 years. You're used to it."

"No, Lester, I'm not used to having to worry about a private army sending multiple assassins to kill me. I'm used to plenty, but I'm not, nor do I ever want to become adapted, to **that**."

"Oh, just do your job. Always such a complainer. Complaining about everything. I have to work to, fuckface! You think I won't get heat for this? I'm the ringleader of this bullshit! Been the ringleader since the 90s. And now it's almost the 20s...I got to get out of the game..."

"Fine, I'll find Percival. Just don't want this to get too hot."

"Thank you, it'll pay off, I promise. It always does! I don't know what you're worried about."

"At this point, I _not_ worrying would be cause for a little anxiety."

And, with that, Michael left Lester's dilapidated Murrieta Heights complex, in search for the elusive and wealthy Don Percival. Mr. Percival's coordinates were given as follows: he was leaving his Chumash home for some legal negotiations with the IAA and FIB in downtown Los Santos. For the first time in a while, Michael wouldn't be tailing someone to kill them, but just to study their daily routine, their mannerisms, their emotional connections; he was becoming a professional stalker.

The drive didn't take long; Michael's car intercepted Percival's at some place in Vinewood, and began tailing him. Percival acted as any pretentious, wealthy, and successful man would: he was driving his Truffade Adder through the intersections of the classic Vinewood, stopping occasionally to go into Starbucks and get himself a Frappuccino and Espresso, always turning a blind eye to the poor on the streets of the small burrow, stationing a gun on his dashboard in case anyone got crazy, and so on. For the most part, he was your average rich man, as commonplace as that could be, but, then again, it was Vinewood, burrow of the cunts. He bobbed and weaved through the immediate streets, going past multiple malls, finally arriving in the downtown area. All that was left was for him to exit and firmly lock his car, and enter, first, the IAA building, with its ornate glass windows and gleaming federal stairs and doors.

Michael knew that he couldn't tail his target any longer without being spotted, and, as such, withdrew from the immediate vicinity. So, he decided to attend the local attractions around the area, of which could be found: he decided to trek to the pier, despite the fact that it was miles away from where he was supposed to be. It was here that he found Trevor, screwing around.

"Trevor, the fuck are you doing?"

"Research, my 'friend,' research! Lester told me inspect the geography of Los Santos, Blaine County, and Mount Chiliad. Is that not what I'm accomplishing right now?"

"Trevor, you realize we have to move on this before the end of _May_, right? It's May fucking 1st! I want my 25 mil just as bad as you do, well, maybe much more than you do, considering the fact that you're beating it at the pier. Get off your ass and go to Blaine County!"

"Don't you fucking talk to me like that, you Reptilian motherfucker! Don't you forget that I have _every_ reason to pop a cap in your skull **this very minute**, give me a reason, Mikee. GIVE ME A FUCKING REASON! I dare you."

"Sigh, Trevor, just do your job, please? I don't feel like getting into a fight with you again. Besides, you may be too unstable for that right now, but, then again, you're always unstable..."

"Eat a dick, asshole. And I am going to Blaine County, but it's _not_ because you told me to. It's...it's because of my meth business! Yeah, you don't tell me what to do, _I_ tell me what to do. My meth business is in deep need of being checked up on, and I intend to adhere to that responsibility. You know what that is, Mikee? Responsibility? Taking **responsibility** and ownership for your actions? Don't worry, Mikee, you still have 30 days before it's too late _again_.

"Fine, Trevor. I'm going back to the IAA building, Percival's probably done there anyway."

"Fucking hypocrite, coming here and chastising me for dickin' around at the peer when you're here to do the exact same thing. See you later, Snake."

"Bye, Trevor. Oh yeah, Trevor, one more thing: didn't you forgive me for all this Brad shit 5 years ago? What's making you so angry about it again?"

"I...nothing! I'm just pissed that I can't trust anyone, even my best friend of over 20 years! Just fuck off, Mikee. I need to go to Blaine County, and I don't want you in my presence at the moment."


	3. Foraging

Chapter 3: Foraging

Franklin had the most difficult job of all: finding competent, learnt individuals for the job that they were going to pull, all within a month's time, possibly even less. He looked far and wide, in every criminal and federal nook and cranny he could search in without being physically reprimanded. After all of that, all he could do was get Norton to hire an architect from the federal government. It seemed the most prudent, regal way of going about the situation; no illegality involved.

All in all, Franklin's intelligence led him to the members he needed. He would have a federally funded architect on the team, paid by the monetary proprietary funds Norton had recently been given control over, and Michael would be the point-man.

After all of that, Franklin would need some strong gunmen, especially for the amount of vigor they'd have to deal with upon entering Percival's subconscious. He'd also need a forger; God knows that Trevor wouldn't make a good one. To be a forger, one would have to have exceptional acting potential and skill; Michael was already the point-man, he wouldn't be able to function in two roles at once, especially on a job like this.

The lack of professionalism when it came to planning altercations of this caliber severely irked Franklin, especially knowing the fact that his 25 million dollars hung in the balance. Merryweather's reoperation in the state would also pose a bit of a safety issue for Franklin, but it was all about the money for him, nothing else. So, he decided to search for actors in the place one would find them: all over Los Santos.

That's right, everyone in Los Santos wore, wears, and will continue to wear a mask for their entire life, whether it be for acting or some other formal purpose. Finding actors and lowlifes in this town was easier than robbing a liquor store when the manager wasn't around. The simple problem was this, however: Percival _knows_ Vinewood Hills, meaning that he'd be able to spot a celebrity a mile away should the team choose to bring one in for the job. This being known to Franklin, he knew that he'd have to search in some lesser-known areas of the state of San Andreas. It'd have to be someone professional, too; going to south-central to pick up a tough gang-member wouldn't help Franklin, unless it were for crowd control, and even then, the gangs around there weren't exactly home to the sharpest tools in the shed.

In light of this, Franklin decided to travel north, far north. In fact, he decided to completely leave the state of San Andreas for a little while, venturing to Liberty City, searching for capable people that hadn't quite made it to Broadway, but that were on their way there. The plan for him was simple: go to a Broadway show or two, find a way to get backstage, and blackmail actors to come with him back to his home state. All he had to do was drug one or two and bring them back, simple as that.

And at long last, he found one: Joey Mendez, playing the part of Sheridan Whiteside in the play "The Man Who Came to Dinner." Before leaving for the premiere, Franklin bought a few guns, all machine guns, to _persuade_ Mr. Mendez, as well as his bodyguards, that he should come back with him to San Andreas. First, he watched the show, a good one at that; Mr. Whiteside was a spoiled old man who felt entitled to special treatment on account of his injury at the hands of the estate he had been befallen on. Other than that, Franklin kept in mind that he had a job to do: coerce Mendez. So, he ventured backstage, prowling about, looking for the role of Whiteside. Unfortunately for Franklin, however, his five years out of the game had proven detrimental to his actual skill; this would indeed be a problem, especially knowing that the guards surrounding Mendez were all armed. Evidently, they weren't armed to the teeth; if that had been the case, Clinton couldn't have gotten as close as he did.

However, Mr. Clinton wasn't exactly making himself look inconspicuous; the guards apprehended him, a small firefight ensuing beforehand, resulting in Franklin getting shot in the knee, and two guards getting hit in the arm, both on their right. Frankie had failed, and due to this, he was going to be taken to the local jail to sort out his punishment.

"I'm thinking...20 years, at least. You may be in the North, but being black, even in the year 2018, is still a sin in it of itself. It's not looking too good for you; two counts of attempted murder. If they get lucky, they'll be able to pin one count for attempted kidnapping. On top of that, they've identified you as one of the guys on the Union Depository job a few years back. If you ever leave prison, it'll be as a skeleton; lot of money lost there...possibly including mine," said the stalwart lawyer.

"Sigh...man, I'm grateful you're helping me out n' all, but the fact is that I don't have time to waste with all this legal bullshit," Franklin calmly stated.

"Then I got nothing for ya, kid. And how the hell are _you_ gonna get away from the heat? This is Liberty fucking City. If they want to keep you, they'll keep ya. They know how."

"I'm gonna need my phone call. Hold on, and thanks for at least trying to help me. My bros are gonna pick me up."

"Well, good luck to ya. Try not to screw anything up for me, alright?"

"Alright; hey, sir, can I get my phone call now? Thanks. Okay...uh, hey, Mikee?"

"Hey, Frankie, what's wrong? You sound a little hoarse," Michael claimed.

"Yeah, shit's bad right now. Had to find a forger, and, well, the forger found me, along with about ten of the LCPD."

"LCPD? _Liberty City Police Department?_ When the hell did you go there, and why? What's the point?

"Aight, listen to me, M. We ain't gonna find a credible person on the streets of Vinewood, and hell, if we aren't gonna find anyone there, we're not going to find anyone on the entire west coast, let alone the state of San Andreas, as good an actor as everyone is there. So, I made the 'logical' conclusion of goin' to Liberty City, lots a actors there, right?"

"Well, who exactly did ya look for, F?"

"Joey Mendez, one of the lesser known yet actually adequate actors on the streets of LC."

"You mean the guy who played Whiteside in that one play? I hear he's actually pretty good!"  
"Beside the point, M. I need you and Trevor to come and get me. They know about the Union Depository lick, they did a background check. Turns out one of our old crewmembers talked some shit; Taliana Martinez, I think. She's in prison now, but I guess she'll be gettin' out early on account a that. No doubt we gonna hit her once she does, though."

"Uh...F, I hate to break it to you, but if the feds know about the UD robbery a few years back, you're not the only one in danger, then."

"Shit, I know, but I need you to come get me. I need all a you too, if you wanna get this job done."

"Fuck me...alright. But we're gonna come get ya in a few days, so sit tight. Only a couple more weeks time until we absolutely _have_ to move on this, we're not using our resources wisely here."

"Aight, I appreciate it, M. Hope to see you soon."

"Yeah, hope to see you too, Frank."

"You do realize that those phone calls are tapped, right?" said the now pretentious lawyer.

"Not like it matters. You can't stop someone if that person wants something bad enough."

"Yeah, well, good luck. Like I said, you're up against LC's finest. They're not gonna let you go, at least, not easily."

"T...we gotta talk," Michael sighed.

"About?" Trevor conversed.

"It's...it's about F."

"What about him? This sounds oddly treacherous. I thought you were past that phase."

"It isn't anything 'treacherous,' T. It's actually about helping Frankie. He got caught by the LCPD trying to blackmail an actor, Joey Mendez, his name is."

"Yeah, not a good time. Meth business is in flames right now. Probably should've explained that to you when I stormed off from the pier a couple of days ago."

"Shit, Trevor, aren't you supposed to be the morally astute member of the triad of cunts? Thought you'd be a little more forgiving, especially to your emotional butt-buddy, Franklin."

"**Don't you fucking talk to me about being on the moral high ground you treacherous asshole of a snake husk. I've done my fair share; it's time **_**you do**_** something on your own**."

"Calm. Your. Shit. I was only trying to guilt you, that's all."

"I suppose I should expect it from someone who's been being baked by the sun of Los Santos for years and years, now. But I can't fucking help you. Sorry, tough tits."

"Trevor, don't do this...I need you right now. Besides, you don't want Merryweather coming back into the state, do you? We won't be the only ones in danger. The entire criminal underworld could be in jeopardy because of these shitty mercenaries. I need ya back in the game, T, just like you needed me those few years ago."

"Ain't flyin', sorry."

Michael felt defeated. He could feel the twenty-five million dollars just slipping through his hands, as well as his safety. Whichever of the two he valued more, was a topic put up for extreme debate. As long as Frankie was in prison, or going to prison, Michael would have to consider moving out of the state, possibly the entire country. The criminal underworld of San Andreas wouldn't take that much of a hit, but there would be an exceptional drop in experienced members of the crime ring. Of all people, he seriously didn't expect Trevor to turn him away, even in a time of need akin to this. This did not solely affect Michael, it affected Trevor, Franklin, Lester, you name it. Merryweather just couldn't be allowed to operate in the state, at least, not on any of the aforementioned individual's parts. But Michael wasn't one to give up without using his knack for manipulating people. He would find a way, and find a way he did.

"Lester, need you to get me a couple of gunmen. We're gonna get Franklin out of the Liberty City Penitentiary, and we're gonna do it this week."

"On such short notice...you never make my job easy, but I can see where you're coming from. I'll help, mostly because my own life depends on it."

"I know this is cliché to say and all, L, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Shut the fuck up and let me think; oh yeah, by the way, how'd Frankie get himself caught?"

"The dumbass thought he could just waltz into backstage of a Broadway show with a couple of guns and steal an actor. Apparently, that didn't work out well for him. Frankie's supposed to be smart too, I don't know what the hell happened."

"Sigh...fuck. Alright. It's going to take a lot of money, maybe a favor or two. You need to stay with me on this, and you're gonna do exactly what I tell you."

"Alright, alright, I get it, authority. Do your job."

"As long as you do yours."

Lester acquired the usual suspects, Packy McReary, Gustavo Mota, and Paige Harris, all of which were exceptional when it came to the subject of handling weaponry.

"I'm going to ask you to do the impossible; for it, you get a cut of the upcoming job that you will not be a part of. As the details of this heist are shrouded in federal secrecy, I can't go far beyond that. Just know that all of you will probably be getting at least 10 mil each if this goes well."

"Because of the fact that you've proven yourself trustworthy in the past, Lester, I'll let the peripherals of your little heist go unchecked. What do we need to do?" Harris interceded.

"This is a bit on short notice—I'm going to need you to break Mr. Franklin Clinton out of the Liberty City Penitentiary, this week."

"Well...damn, okay, I'll try my best. Hacking skills should come in handy."

"Michael will be joining all three of you for the heist itself; we'll be having a meeting tomorrow, same place, my house."

"You say it like it's going to be a cakewalk, Lest...we may have survived on that job for the Union Dep, but LC is an entirely different story, especially the penitentiary itself," McReary retorted.

"It's only one guy, not like you'll be breaking out multiple people."  
"Yeah, like we'll be taking one person involuntarily. Multiple people at the prison will be giving us heat, even if they don't have guns. It's. A. Prison!"

"What do you want me to do? You'll get your cuts, just be happy. Besides, you'll be moving on this in two days, most likely."

"Well, could always use some extra money, especially in South Central," Mota supported.

Franklin spent his first night in the penitentiary, scared. He'd been to the county jail a few times, but had never been sent to a full-on prison before. He knew that his friends would come to save him, but he couldn't help but feel a little jittery at the thought that he was in there with a few people who didn't exactly have their heads on straight. He'd gotten stronger over the five years he'd had, so he was able to defend himself. No inmate made any moves on him because of this; they could tell that he was going to be a problem for them if they were going to be a problem for him. Then, Franklin started to gingerly initiate conversation.

"So...uh...I know this is kinda cliché n' all, but whata y'all in here for?" Franklin inquired.

"What the hell is it to you?" asked a random inmate.

"Nothin', nothin'...just thought I'd make conversation while we were in here."

"Well...uh...I'm in here for robbing a convenience store."

"That's it?"

"Yeah...LC police are really racist, I'm gonna be in here for about five years."

"Hey...let me ask you something...what are you interested in?"

"Whaddya mean 'What am I interested in?' This isn't amateur therapy hour."

"I didn't mean that, but if you were to break out tomorrow or the next day, what would you want to do first?"

"Well, I always sorta liked theater...but I liked robbing more, until I got caught, of course."

"Well, how would you like to break outta here tomorrow night or the next day? My friends are comin' to pick me up, and we need one more person for a job we gonna pull at the end of the month."

"Jesus, your trust is _fast_ to gain. You know that I could just tell the guards about this whole thing and possibly reduce my sentence, right?"

"You can, but I implore you to look at who you're dealing with. Someone who's at least three times the size of you. Your choice, bro."

"Threatening me, eh? Well, I guess I truly _don't _have a choice then. Who are your so-called 'friends?'"

"They go by the names of T and M. I ain't gonna say their full names 'cause if I did, you'd probably shit your pants, that is unless you're new to the game?"

"Relatively. I've pulled a few miniscule jobs over LC."

"Then why you sayin' the cops are racist? You been doin' this shit plenty of times, of course you gonna get a sentence of at least five years. Shit, lucky it wasn't more."

"I said I was going to help you; don't push it."

"Not like you can do anything about it."

"Touché...anyway, alright, I'll keep quiet. But if this prison break you're talking about doesn't fly, I'm gonna tell the guards that you set me up. On a lighter note, whaddya in here for?"

"That's none of your concern right now. Go to sleep, and we'll get ready to move on this."

"Knee looks pretty roughed up...you sure this is gonna work? Your life depends on it, you know."

"So does yours; don't worry about my knee. My friends are good at what they do."


	4. Trevor Phillips Industries

Chapter 4: Trevor Phillips Industries

After leaving the pier, Trevor knew he had to check up on "Trevor Phillips Industries," especially knowing that Ron was in charge of the entire thing. Ron had done an exceptional job last time, which is why it was completely out of left-field for Trevor to simply return to his base of operations. But, lucky for Ron, his plight actually necessitated Trevor: a new Russian crime ring had just sprung up out of nowhere in Blaine County, and was now taking scores against Trevor's business itself.

"Oh, thank _god_ you're here! We're in some big trouble, T."

"I can't leave you for two fucking days without you causing shit, can I?"

"Now, uh, now...I—I handled the business last time! I—I'm useful, Trevor! I'll do whatever you want, promise!"

"That's better, now, before I ask you to rub me out, I need you to tell me just what the hell's been going on. You seem more...frisky than usual."

"It's a new drug ring, Trevor! New guys that I hear are from Eastern Europe, I think, uh, Russia? Anyway, they brought their meth here, along with other drugs, and have been selling it like hotcakes!"

"So? Just kill 'em. I _expect_ that you know how to do that? God, you need to run a business, and you don't even know how to kill people? This is America! Capitalism runs on that shit!"

"I—I know, Trevor...it's just that, well, they're Russian! And you know about how they caused that civil war in Ukraine a couple years back..."

"Are you calling our newfound competition a bunch of imperial elitists? I know that you're a lot a things, Ron, but a racist? I oughtta beat you 'til your grandchildren are unconscious; that's inflammatory! Besides, do ya really think the Russian people _wanted_ that? Over 70% of them said they didn't want Putin in Ukraine back four years ago!"

"Okay, okay Trevor, I'm _sorry_. But, but, we still have to deal with this."

"Don't tell me what to do, I tell _you_ what to do."

"Trevor...if it's okay for me to ask, why do you have such an inferiority complex?"

"_**WHAT?**_"

"Nevermind, nevermind!

"Damn straight, now, about the Russians. Show me where they are in the county."

"Okay, they're near the Alamo Sea, northern end. Northern end, as in, they're stationed a little ways up in the mountains. You know that village of cannibals and old people you took out a few years back? I think they've taken that over."

"Perfect, I know the terrain. Ron, I need you to handle the business; I'll get everything together. Oh, phones ringing."

This particular phone call was a tinge of emotional pain for Trevor: he'd just found out that his good friend of about five years, Franklin, was in the penitentiary. Even worse, he couldn't do anything about it; after hanging up on Michael, he felt a little guilty.

All throughout his life, he felt that he was the one who had to keep his moral record clean of any stains. If a friend needed help, he'd be there. If he needed to be honest, he would. He was the one who was to stay true to himself, even when everyone else survived off of lying. He'd always been this way, probably on account of his abusive father. Canada had some rough memories for the emotionally decrepit Phillips, some that he'd never want to mentally venture back towards. In the end, all he could do was watch as his friend was probably going to be sent to jail for at least twenty years of his life. He just didn't know what to do.

As he drove his stolen Truffade Adder through the twists and turns, the corridors and entryways of Mount Chiliad, he reflected on his life, thinking about how good, and yet how bad a person he was. All the choices he'd made, all the strife he'd endured, and he couldn't help one of the best friends of his life. It hurt.

At the end of it all, he was just a mile away from his destination; more killing just for his capitalistic decadence. This would simply be to crush the competition with respect to his own business, nothing more, nothing less. He'd done this dozens of times before, sometimes with a hint of gory happiness. He especially adored the instances in which the situation would turn awry, actually putting his own life in danger, instead of the mass-murdering being a cakewalk with the occasional bullet in the side. This particular shooting would not be his easiest, but it wouldn't be nearly the most difficult either. It was just adequate, that was that. Adequate, average, common, run-of-the-mill.

As Trevor was ruminating on this, he'd just began to realize, what on earth was he doing here, especially while one of his greatest companions was in trouble? On top of that, his "friend," more acquaintance than anything now, Michael, was going to get himself into some heat too. It was surprising to Trevor, seeing Michael stick his neck out for his other friends; he'd seldom seen him do that before.

And it was in that moment that he realized, Franklin was a very special, and extremely rare individual. Not only was his intelligence palpable, his loyalty was unmatched. Even in the face of death, Franklin never wavered or backed down from helping one of his friends, even those that he'd only known for a few short weeks.

If Trevor stayed there any longer, the Russian gang might find him, and then he'd have to go through with the ostensibly gratuitous killing of at least ten more people. Ten more people on his kill list, and how many had he maimed, butchered, murdered, sliced up into little pieces? The list could go on for miles; hell, Trevor must've been the most dangerous serial killer of all time. He'd just do it on a whim. And, now, he was questioning all of that, all for the sake of Franklin. It was evident to him that Clinton alone could make himself question what he thought was right and wrong, what was healthy and unhealthy, what was sentimental or detrimental.

On top of all of this, however, he knew that he still had two jobs to accomplish: first and foremost, save his meth business; secondly, he'd have to scout the entire state of San Andreas, with special attention to small details in order to make the ensuing dream world become professedly tangible.

"This is it, buddy. Leave or kill; those are your two choices," Trevor's mind stated.

This was a distinct pain that Trevor was now feeling.

"Это частная собственность, ублюдок! Отпуск или мне будет стрелять!" a guard yelled at the now fervently damaged Trevor.

"I have no idea what the fuck you're saying, but you've gotten off lucky this time. I'll leave our competition alone."

And with that, Trevor drove away, into the night, hoping for some other peripheral action. Other than that, he didn't do much.

"I couldn't do it; I couldn't _**fucking**_ do it."

"What—what do you mean? You're the best at it! How could you suddenly not do it?"

"DON'T QUESTION ME! Would you rather I'd have killed _you?_"

"N—no, Trevor! I didn't mean nothin' by it, honest!"

"Better fucking not've. Anyway, yeah, I couldn't do it. You must think I'm **soooooooo **weak now, right? **Right**?"

"No, you're the boss, Trevor! I understand that, don't worry!"

"Then don't for a second put my authority on the table! I'm the CEO of this goddamn business. I do what I want!"

"Y—yes, Trevor. Yeah, sorry. So, if you're not gonna do that, what _are_ ya gonna do?"

"Leave that to me, Ronald, leave that to me."

With that done, Trevor decided to scope the entirety of the state. It took a few days, but he figured it'd at least make up for a little of what he'd done to his two friends. He was doing his job now, no one could argue that. He was going to have the entire thing accomplished by when and if Michael and Franklin escaped LC. That would be enough of a redemption for him at the present moment; more of the same would come, more chances to redeem himself, and he'd take it, but this was his main focus.

Leaving that Russian gang alive was undoubtedly going to damage his meth business; Trevor understood and accepted that. So, in a way, this "last" job was sort of a leap of faith for him; if it failed, he would be bankrupt, and would have to begin his vicious cycle of crime all over again; this time, he wouldn't have any protection. If he got caught, that was it; he'd be sent to jail, or worse, a mental correctional facility. Of course, he'd have his friends to get himself out, but beyond that, it'd take years to glean the amount of money he'd once made back into his bank account. That was something he rudimentarily did not have the patience for.

All in all, this little heart-to-heart taught himself something _about_ himself; he didn't like unnecessary killing, even though he'd been doing it for god knows how long. He just didn't have the stomach for it anymore.


	5. Liberation Day

Chapter 5: Liberation Day

"Ah, the usual suspects. Mota, McReary, and Harris...nice to see all of you again! Hopefully in good health, as well...," said Michael.

"Much thanks to you, Mr. Townley. We've been living out our days quite fine after that last job we pulled in 2013...at least, I've been," Paige interjected.

"Speak for yourself, Harris. I've been doing a lot of gambling since that lick...forced me to pull even more jobs over the last five years, some of which propelled me back to my former economic standing, others just for the fun. Anyway, as I understand it, you and Lester need us to pull a high-class job, amirite?" McReary debated.

"Right you are, Packy...always one to get to the point. Anyway, yeah, we're here for one reason and one reason only: to break our boy Franklin out of the Liberty City Penitentiary. Oh yeah, also got some bad news...the feds, they know about a couple people who were on the job. If they identify you, chances are that they're going to have you on their file."

"Woah, woah, what? You never said _shit _about that, M. Nor did your pal Lester...you got off lucky. If I'd known about this, I'd have thought this was a trap. M, I don't know you very well, but from what Trevor spouted a few years back at that UD job, you're not exactly one to be trusted," Mota chastised.

"Well, the way I see it, boys, Mr. Townley here can't blackmail us for anything; he'd be risking his own ass too. From what Lester's told me, we'll be getting paid with taxpayer dollars; in other words, it sounds like an extremely good deal, especially considering that he's told me that the feds would be willing to pay us all at least 10 mil just to get Frank out," McReary stated.

"Hold up, aren't the feds the people that **want **us in the ground? Why would we want to accept money from them?" Mota questioned.

"Gus, Gus, Gus...your intelligence hasn't changed a bit. Different branches of the government want different things, dumbass, recognize that! If we were to complete this job, we'd be getting money from the FIB; the idiots that are trying to put us in the ground are probably IAA douchebags or just regular cops from LC's finest," Paige informed Gus.

"Anyway, if you're all in on this, we'll be moving on the job today or tomorrow, depending on what Lester needs us to get," Michael stated.

"You'll all need to be quick, just letting you know," Lester said.

"Yeah, nice job 'informing' us about the evidence on our little UD lick. Came in real handy. How the fuck did they find out? This is serious shit!"

"Look, that doesn't matter much, but if you really want to know, Taliana talked. We're leaving it at that, next item."

"Wait, Taliana?-" the entire group inquired."

"I said next item! Anyway, we all know that LC Penitentiary is one of the most insulated correctional facilities in the US; very few people escape from there and make it to the outside world. It's not like it'll have heat like the UD job, but the danger you'll be facing there will be very real. Due to the short amount of time we have, we'll need to think of a competent yet swift plan, nothing too complex yet too rudimentary. I realize this is a daunting task, so we're all just going to have to think of something now. Gather 'round!"

"I still have money from the UD lick, and myself being a rich producer, I have some money to throw around. Makes me wonder why I'm doing this job in the first place...but then, I remember, Trevor..."

"What's wrong with Trevor, now?" Harris inquired.

"Well...it's not really what's wrong with Trevor, just what's wrong with certain corporations. Okay, maybe it is mostly Trevor...I suppose the only reason I haven't tried to kill him is because I guess I'm sort of past that treachery stage. I don't know."

"Elaborate, please. I'd like to know what effect our busting Franklin out of jail has on not only our lives, but the lives of the criminal underworld."

"Perceptive as ever, Paige...okay, so, there's this guy named Don, Percival. Whether you know him or not, he runs this big security and mercenary firm called 'Merryweather Security Consulting;' I _know_ that most of you have heard of that, you've faced some of their private soldiers..."

"Just get to the point, M."

"Okay, okay. Percival is negotiating a deal for Merryweather to operate in the state again; if this happens, Trevor may start messing with them; this'll undoubtedly get Franklin and I involved, which, in turn, will get even more people involved. It's a Pandora's box that we will endeavor not to open. So, in a way, I guess this **does **affect all of you, albeit slightly. However, it'll still do damage to your criminal career, as well as the criminal underworld of San Andreas."

"You probably already have this figured out, but how in the hell are you exactly going to stop this from happening? Attacking him won't do anything; the state might even grant some special permissions to Merryweather if that happens. What are you going to do?"

"Ah, well, that's the 'fun' part...we're going to do...ugh...'inception.'"

"You're joking, right? You mean like the movie? Are you serious? I mean, I'm not going to act like it's my problem, but Jesus, good luck with that one..."

"You know, funny thing about that...we're actually looking for a few roles to fill: we need a forger, maybe an architect, although Franklin's told me we'll j ust get a federal one; that doesn't really reassure me..."

"Architecture, huh? You know, M, myself being a computer geek n' all...I've dabbled in 3D art design before. This means that I've created entire worlds for my characters to live in. I know a thing or two about building things."

"Enough to create four of them in a dream sequence?"

"M, I'm Harris. I was born a genius; the only girl in many of my hackathons with other people, many of them I've won. I can get into anything I want; I just like the adrenaline that crime gives me, even if it's low-brow shit like some of the jobs you've given me."

"Okay, okay, enough. We need to focus on the job at hand. You can talk about your inception shit later. Anyway, I'm thinking we do a technological attack, seeing as how the whole of the US still hasn't fully upgraded from their shitty Windows XP UI's yet."

"Hey, Windows XP is actually pretty good-"

"Save it, Harris. You're going to be one of the main people on this job. What you'll need to do is simply hack the computers that are controlling the mechanisms of the prison. Mota, McReary, you're on crowd control. Chances are we'll be getting a plethora of heat once we actually leave the prison with Frank. Because of lack of time, I'm going to make this as straightforward as I possibly can; we've dealt with ubiquitous amounts of heat before; this won't be very different.

"Lest, you JUST said that LC wasn't a daycare. If that's the case, I think we're going to need a little better of a plan before we move on this. How about this, alright? We do what we did during the UD job last time. We steal some outfits, get some ID cards, waltz in, take Franklin, and walk right back out."

"Ugh, fine...but I like simpler plans in times like these."

"Well, I simply adore plans that result in me still being alive, don't you? Anyway, yeah, Paige, you can still hack, and you guys can accompany me as we move throughout the prison. I just hope to god that we only have to open one cell door, not all of them at the same time."

The entire group got onto a plane and headed for LC; the ride was actually pretty fun. For the duration of the flight, they played two pretty good movies, both of which had titles that, ironically, no one remembered. One could surmise that they were in their proverbial zone, mentally preparing for another heist, only, this time, they'd be stealing a person, not an object or a multitude of objects.

Once they got off the plane at Liberty City Int'l, they rented a single hotel room in which all five could congregate and prepare.

"Okay, we're all going to need to get some guns, ammo, and armor from Ammu-Nation. To get this done quickly, one of you will need to stay behind and watch the room while the rest get the stuff they need. I'll do that; once you guys return, I'll get the firepower I need on my own. Oh yeah, one more thing: once we get Franklin outside, we'll all need to start wearing ski masks; we will _not_ be able to take a plane out of this city when we're done."

"Lest, I got a feeling...what if we called Trevor again? Even at this point, I still think that he'll help us; it's just the way he is."

"What? No! He's not part of this job, plain and simple! He chose not to be a part of it; he gets no extra 10 mil. His loss."

"Sigh...fine."

An hour passed, and all five had the firepower to take out an entire army if need be. They were good; the best, some could and would say. It was near midnight, and they were all tired. They decided to move on the entire thing once they'd all had at least six hours of rest; then, 6 AM came around.

"Everyone, _wake the fuck up!_" It's time we moved on this, while it's still technically nighttime!" Michael screamed.

"Shut the hell up, M! We may have neighbors, don't draw any undue attention!" Lester viciously stated.

"Fine, fine, but get up, all of you! Today is the day we free Frankie!"

"By the way, what day is it today? I've lost track," Mota asked.

"I think it's, uh...right, Thursday. Thursday, the 10th.

"Fuck, Michael...we're a third the way through May and we've barely even started planning the job that has to take place at the end of the month!

"Now's not the time to worry about that, L. Reminds me: initials from here on in, folks! Okay, M&M...heh, going to need both of you on guns. Remember _not_ to put your ski masks on until we have Frankie outside the prison, along with ourselves, or until our cover is blown. Paige, you...you do your computer shit."

"Uh, eh-hem! I'm the one who gives orders around here, M. Alright, you all know what you need to do, get ready. We leave in five minutes."

The trip to the prison was extremely endearing, especially for Michael, who was feeling ecstatic about the prospect of saving his friend from prison, something he'd wish he'd been able to do with Trevor to his friend Brad. Brad had bothered him a lot over the past fifteen years following his death, emphatically the last five, the time succeeding where Trevor found out about the tragedy of their fallen friend. It was eating away at him; even though Trevor had forgiven him, and he knew that what he'd done was for his family, or, at least, he _thought_, he just couldn't help being conflicted about the entire event. The one friend that he'd truly betrayed, not Trevor, but Brad.

Even if Brad was a rudimentary fading memory in Michael's consciousness and subconsciousness, he couldn't help feel a little guilted. But, as they encroached upon the territory that the prison took up, he knew that he couldn't afford to trouble himself with these feelings until at least after the job, again. He was postponing his bout with his feelings _again_, much like his previous gumptions about his own emotions. It was beginning to bother him, but now was certainly not the time for it to take place. "Eye on the prize," Michael thought to himself.

"Alright gentlemen and lady-"  
"Never say that again, L," Harris commanded.

"Whatever, anyway, a prison bus is inbound; I want you guys to stop it and find as many guard uniforms as you can possibly wear. Free the inmates and make sure they don't cause any trouble to us."

"On it; ski masks on, now!," Michael said as he blocked the bus with his own stolen armored car.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, I need some genuine guard uniforms for my friends over here; please do not make me ruin them with your blood! Hands up and bodies on the ground, now!"

Lucky for the entire team, most everyone on the bus complied with their demands. There was the occasional heroic hiccup here and there, nothing that couldn't have been solved by shooting a few bullets at people's feet. All in all, the group got their uniforms, and even liberated some twenty something prisoners, some of which probably committed atrocious acts during their time in the outside world; this mattered not to the heist at hand.

The former guards were stripped of their communication devices, as well as a vehicle that could lead them to asylum; they were essentially at the mercy of the escaped prisoners, some of which approached the guards in a menacing way. This was of no concern to the heist, again; moral ambiguity and ambivalence was, is, and will probably still be common to the people that were committing the crime.

The congregation was reaching the penitentiary, ever so gradually. They knew what they had to do; no words were necessary. Most everything was tacit from there-on in. The bus entered the prison; as this was being done, Paige readied her weapons, and exited with her uniform on. She entered the control room, killed the three guards that were manning it with a muffled pistol, and began reprogramming the system to unlock one door instead of the ten thousand that were in the building itself.

Lester would stay in the bus, making it his base of operations for the complete duration of the job. Michael, Gustavo, and Packy entered the prison and looked for Franklin.

"Sorta knew you'd come, thanks guys!"

"Eh, no problem, F! Who's this guy, he looks like he knows you."

"Ah, well...hope this doesn't mess up your plan in any way, but we actually need him. Turns out he's a pretty good actor, not well known too. I figured someone like Joey Mendez actually _would_ seem a bit obvious to Percival, so I decided that I'd let him tag along."

"Fuck...I guess there's no way you could've told us. I guess you're the smartest in the group, even they ya got yourself caught...sigh."

"If your friend isn't convincing you, allow me to. I can inform the guards at any minute about your little escape attempt-"

"Oh, so the rabbit has 'teeth.' What's to stop me from putting you down right this instant, motherfucker?"

"The fact that if one of these prisoners sees you shoot me, it'll cause a riot, more than you can handle. Besides, are you ready to kill hundreds of people in broad daylight just to save one guy?"

"Shit, this guy actually talks good...fine, fine. Won't do much, if not anything to the plan anyway. But you better be a good forger. Anyway, let's cut to the chase, what's your name?"

"Tyler Daniels is the name. Don't really know what a forger is, but it sounds funner than staying here."

"It will be, especially with your knack of manipulation and coercion...move fast now, we need to be in n' out quickly."

This being the LC Penitentiary, it was only common sense that the entire battalion would be facing some form of heat throughout the job. Michael brought extra firearms for Frank, but didn't have any plans for his new friend. Mota assisted in this.

"Nice to see you two again, M&M, eh?"

"Shut the fuck up and keep running. Don't want too much heat," McReary coldly yelled.

"Fine, fine—how much you guys getting paid for this?"

"10 mil, nice price, right?" Mota interjected.

"Nice, nice...hey, thanks again n' all, but where's Trevor?"

"Mike here tells us that he couldn't make it; said he was having trouble with his meth business," McReary calmly stated.

"That's...not like Trevor. Not like Trevor to refuse to help his friends, even with his meth business in trouble...what you think 'bout this, M?"

"I think that we need to focus on the situation at hand and worry about Phillips later."

"Fine, fine...everyone's so damn snippy today, I bet it's 'cause it's the mornin'."

"I...have absolutely no idea what the hell you guys are talking about, but you sound like you're busy and important; I hope at least one of those is true."

"You'll find out soon, T," Franklin stated.

Guards had just begun swarming the penitentiary, blocking off every entrance they could. Paige had already killed at least twenty guards, all instantaneously. She was steadily running out of ammunition; just as she was about to deplete herself of it all, the main platoon arrived, and they ran as fast as they could to the prison bus.

"What took you so goddamn long? I've been waiting in this bus for over an hour!"

"Thanks for comin' through, L...you really went above and beyond for this one."

"Shut up and drive, you're getting us out of here on account of you being the best driver here."

"Got it. Where to?"

"LC airfield, Trevor's pickin' us up!"

"And when exactly did this happen, Michael?"

"The night before we went on this job. Turns out having faith in your friends actually gets you somewhere. You should try it sometime, L."

"Well, if that's the case, I guess we need to go now. I need all a ya'll to manage the windows; need some turrets."

And with that, they were off. Franklin tried to drive as quickly as he could; the fact that the bus was heavily armored helped tremendously. As they continued on their bumpy ride, LC's finest began chasing them. Franklin and the rest of the congregation knew exactly how to evade them: the trick was never to take straight roads; the cop cars were fast, especially the interceptors; for this, Franklin would take the backstreets of the city and swerve in any way he could.

Eventually, they'd all gotten away, and the airfield was finally in view, along with Trevor's jet, one of many items that he'd stolen in the past. It was a euphoric site to Franklin, seeing his old friend after only having stayed in prison for a couple of nights.

"And that's all she wrote, folks! Hope onto the jet and let's get the hell out of here!"

"Missed you, bro. Thanks for comin' through."

"Anything for you Frankie, my boy! I shouldn't have turned a blind eye to you in the beginning; to make up for that, not only have I just saved you right now, but I also finished my job of scouting the entirety of San Andreas; everything's ready for the architect we're getting!"

"D-damn...nice work, T! You the craziest and most productive motherfucker I ever had the pleasure a meetin'...good work."

"Wow, T...you really did go above and beyond for that. Good job."

"All for the job, all for the lick. Anyway, it's best we get out of here before the 5-0 catch us again."

"Don't call them that. Just call them cops, that's less stupid and corny," McReary stated.

"You must not know me very well, McReary, because if you did, you'd know to keep that little asshole of yours shut; got it?"

"Sigh, fine. Please just get us out of here."

"Your money'll be waiting for you at the FIB building. Just get it and go," Lester stated.

"That reminds me; Paige, I need to speak with you once we land," Michael said.

"Fair enough."

The flight back to San Andreas was a short one, filled with small banter here and there, but nothing major. All who needed to be paid would be getting paid, and those who were to go without compensation accepted this as it was. This heist was completely successful, and should've been, for the most part, clean. Now, all that was left was the main heist, the Percival job.


	6. Back to Work

Chapter 6: Back to Work

The ride back to San Andreas, specifically Trevor's airfield, was a short and seamless one. The entire group was composed of eight people, about the number it took to take the UD a few years back. While this job certainly wasn't of that caliber, it was ostensibly paramount in surmounting the next imminent task, inception on Percival.

In all honesty, Franklin's capture and subsequent freedom had actually been able to bear fruit for the entire company; they got a forger for the job, and a random forger at that. All they had to do was test and ameliorate his acting abilities, tweaking any minor abnormalities. Even more, Paige was now set to help on the job as well.

"Now, I can talk to you."

"What is this about? Something to do with the job you're pulling in a few weeks, right?'

"Right, we need an architect for the job. Originally, we were going to have one paid for by the federal government; this wouldn't exactly decrease corruption in the fed, but it'd certainly give them one more worker for the other buildings that they'd have to build during the course of this month."

"Okay, how much you offering?"

"As of right now, 25 mil, all paid for by the 'honest' taxpayers of America."

"And how do we know that we can trust the government in this case?"

"Because my buddy, my good friend Dave Norton, is handling the entire thing. Besides, even if he _were_ to try anything, he and you both know how dangerous Trevor, Franklin, or I alone can be. He won't attempt anything on us, trust me."

"Well, you guys did handle those mercenaries in that job that killed those four guys a few years back, so I guess I can trust your word. What would I have to do, specifically?"

"Create three dream worlds. You've done graphic design before, right?"

"Yeah, pretty good at it, I'd like to think."

"Okay, so you'd just be doing that, three times over. Keep in mind, all the environments you create have to be realistic; they also can't be any locations that are already extant. Only things you can use from reality are small details, like a street lamp or a sign."

"How long do I have to create these ensuing lifelike environments?"

"...that's the tough part, at least in my opinion. You have about two to three weeks. They don't exactly have to look too real, considering that it'll be a dream sequence, but you have to remember that Percival is trained for this type of stuff. He'll know if something doesn't architecturally hold weight."

"Fuck, Mikee...you're putting a lot on my plate...but 25 mil? Sounds awesome...that's more than what we got from the UD, and more than I can certainly spend, at least for now. Alright, I'll do it; I know your reputation and the reputation of your crew, so I'll trust you.

"Thanks, Harris, I appreciate it. Oh, and we'll probably be moving on this Memorial Day weekend; sorry, no barbecues, unless, of course, we do this before then."

While the position of the architect was settled, it was time to find some competent gunman that were able to hold their own. Michael decided to simply use the men that were on his last job, Mota and McReary.

"Hell yeah, we'll do it. Mike, you have such an impressive track record now, it'd be downright stupid of us to turn it down. And 25 mil, you say? Feel like we're robbing you...yeah, we'll do it, don't worry," McReary said.

All the positions were set, and all that was left was for the architect to work her magic; everything was falling into place. The only hiccup so far was the fact that Franklin had been captured; only, that had actually played to the advantage of the crew itself, earning them the forger they needed. Everything was running like clockwork...

"Okay, Frankie, show me your new friend. Tyler, was it?"

"Yeah, Tyler Daniels. Low-rate actor, none-rate forger. Don't even know what the hell it is."

"Frank didn't explain it to you? Weird. Anyway, a forger is someone who is able to take on the appearance of someone else during the dream sequence, say, a projection, or other form of subconscious representation."

"Mind telling me what a projection is?"

"Right, right, I don't think I've explained it to anyone else, either...a projection is a mental representation of your subconscious. They're essentially the white blood cells of the mind one enters. If someone changes the scenery or surroundings of the physical dream itself, the entire situation could go awry."

"Sounds about as complicated as brain surgery, but go on."

"Well, let me put it this way: if you change shit in the dream, you die. The projections converge on you, and they kill you. Also, in most cases, when you die in a dream, you wake up. This can't happen in our case because of the fact that the sedative we'll be using leaves inner ear function unimpaired, which means we'll still feel falling. This is problematic because of the fact that the sedative will be so powerful that, even in the case of your tragic death, you won't wake up; you'll be transported to limbo."

"...and what the hell is limbo?"

"Basically a never-ending dream."

"So...what you're saying is...if we die in the dream, we won't wake up?"

"Exactly."

"Then how the fuck do we wake up? This whole thing sounds extremely dangerous."

"A kick. When I said that inner ear function was unimpaired, I tacitly stated that falling would induce consciousness."

"...oh. So all we have to do is fall?"

"Not just fall a couple of feet, especially when you're aware of it. I mean a startling fall, a fall that takes a couple of seconds for impact to come to your body, crushing you with pressure. That's another problem; we can't leave the dream until we're done. We essentially won't get a second chance at this, unless we all get plastic surgery and change our names."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm saying that if we fail, we won't be able to do this again. This is so, because of the fact that Percival will now know what we look like, what we sound like, and who we are in general. If this fails, we won't have time for a second chance. Merryweather will operate in the state once again, and my, as well as other people's lives, will be in danger."

"Okay, I see we need a little clarity here. I am only helping any of you because of the money. I really couldn't care less about your life being in danger, especially since I just met you. So, let's leave all the touchy-feely stuff alone and get to business. So, we only have one shot at this; in my case, if we fail, I lose the money, that's it."

"You know, if we didn't need you, I would've shot you in both your knees right now. You say that shit again, not only will I beat the shit out of you, I will get the entire crew to do the same. You show some goddamn respect, especially since we're the guys that broke you outta that prison."

"Ooooh, big tough guy is going to send me back to prison, real scary. You know I can hurt you too, right? I know all about the UD job your friend pulled a few years back. You have more to lose than your precious money here, alright? So guess what, if this fails, I'm going to tell as many people as I can about your friend's little robbery a few years back. Nothing you can do."

"If you want to die, go ahead."

"...right."

"You don't seem like the person to think things through. If you say _a word_ about Franklin or anything that he's done, or do the same for anyone else that I hold dear, I will personally see to it that you die a slow, painful, grueling death. I'll make everyone watch, too. You should really get that mouth of yours under control."

"Same goes for your temper."

"**GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, NOW!**"

Although chemistry wasn't essential to the passage of the plan, camaraderie did make the process much simpler. One item was certain; if Tyler was ever going to work again, he wouldn't be within any sort of correlation to Michael Townley; the latter would make certain of that.

"Your friend is really hot-headed."

"The fuck you just say about Michael?" Franklin retorted.

"Oh, don't tell me you do it too..."

"For your information, not that you deserve it, Michael has been a very good friend to me for these five past years. He's saved my life, more than once, and he deserves a lot more respect than you givin' him right about now. I heard the yelling."

"People suck, and your friend's part of those people."

"Tyler...shut the fuck up. Surprised that mouth a yours didn't get you killed in prison."

"I'm a smart guy, you don't know me."

"Well, we'll see if you smart enough to fool Percival. Better be. Hope you're acting's as good as your attitude and personality are bad."

"Yeah, fuck you too, 'Frankie.'"

"Man, I'm goin' home. People like you are poisonous to be around, ya know."

"Bye. Oh yeah, I dare you to do this shit to Trevor. If you do, make sure to record the sound. It'll be hilarious."


End file.
